Ink Stains
by Les Mots de Meaux
Summary: The Hatter contemplates life and Alice contemplates life, but their takes on life are quite different. Will be multi-chaptered. Chapter 4 has been revised.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is slightly connected to my other Alice in Wonderland (novel) fanfiction, Journey Under the Lilac Clouds; it takes place in the same sort of universe. This will also be a multi-chaptered fanfiction; I'm not sure how many chapters just yet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland or any of its characters. All that I own is the arrangement of words upon this page.

He was of the particular mind that one ought not to choose a profession. Instead, the profession must choose one.

She, on the other hand, was of the particular mind that either one chooses a profession or falls into the line of family business.

He did not believe in the concept of family business. Should one not do what is best for them? Or, as she believed, should one do what is best for the pedigree of the ages-old family?

She could scarcely even consider his insistence that one must not choose their profession. He believed that when the time is right, and cards are down, that one's profession will gladly choose them. This concept made little sense to her and her Victorian sensibilities.

It made perfect sense to him, as did everything in his wonderfully mad world. Sure, in her world, queens wore violet instead of red and rabbits never held pocket watches, and he accepted that. He just also happened to accept the idea that his world was so much more _exciting _than hers. Her entertainment lay in the mundane practice of cross-stitching and attending excessively formal parties. His entertainment, however, lay in the fantastic practice of hat-making and chasing disappearing felines across the vast lands of Wonderland.

Being a milliner was the supreme delight of his life. To hold a hat in his hands was his utmost joy. He loved the feel of fine velvet across his fingertips, and the delightful cutting of silk ribbons to fit around the hat as a puggaree. He loved to fashion a hat from the jigsaw pieces of delicate fabric, to create something perfect out of imperfect pieces.

Now, he was not much of a philosopher, and he made no claims to be one. However, he did trust in one theory, one extravagant yet believable metaphor: a hat was like a person's life.

A person's life, like a hat, must have all of its necessary parts to survive. A hat must have a crown, a brim, and a ribbon around the circumference. A person's life must have friendship, love, and happiness to tie it all together. Both are held with glue; a hat, literally, but a person's life with the glue made of other lives, interconnecting and meeting.

However, different fabrics may be used to produce different hats, just as different conditions bring about different people's lives. Velvet is a delicate material, and must be used carefully. Different conditions can bring about a delicate life and a delicate person.

Different formations of hats, like different formations of lives, can be affected directly by the maker. A milliner can form any material, if he is good enough, into any style of hat. A person can make anything of his life, if he is courageous and firm of mind enough.

But enough of thinking. He is tired, his bones are aching. He is not old, yet he complains. Interestingly enough, he finds that one complains out loud only when they are young or when they are old. When one is of their middle years, one keeps his complaints close to himself. Impressions are all the rage, after all, and they do matter quite a bit. Luckily, his age was not able to be determined, due to his disinterest in the matter. Ageless was better than old, young, or middle-aged, in his book. And his book was very full.

He is tired, his bones are aching. He stands from his bench, and sets the unfinished hat down upon the table. A sewing machine sits to his right, and many bolts of ribbon sit to his left. Behind him, a vast array of fabrics rests upon a bookshelf. This is his millinery room, this is his true home. He feels as though his heart is here, and didn't she tell him once that home is where the heart is?

He straightens his hat upon his head just the way he likes it – slightly titled to the side. He replaces his gloves upon his hands with a grimace. His hands, worn and calloused, carry the stains of many colors of ink. Colors of ink, days of lives.

He walks from the room, locking the door behind himself. He does not want anyone to steal his ideas, to creep in to his home. Burglars and thieves do not sit well in his book.

He makes his way down the stairs, careful to avoid the last one, for it creaks loudly and disturbs his thoughts. Too late for protecting his thoughts, though, for a certain interruptance makes herself known.

"Sir, I was just wondering –"the girl in the blue dress starts, barreling at top speed straight into him. He smiles down at her, kind eyes green and yet blazing. He draws her into a tight embrace, then lets her go.

"Wondering in Wonderland, how wonderful!" he exclaims. "And where have you been, dear? I looked all over and all under for you, but you were naught to be found!" He shook his head at her, disapproval written all over his face.

"I thought I told you, sir," she said, straightening her white apron across her blue frock dress. She placed her hands at her sides, looking up at him. "I was just looking for something to eat. I was just gone for a minute."

"Didn't seem that way, my dear. Seemed a lot longer than a minute. Maybe five minutes! Every second counts, didn't you know?" he said, smile growing broader and madder with every passing word.

"Every second counts in _what_?" she asked, curious expression upon her face.

"Life, dear, life, for it is glorious and passes quickly," he stated. "Come on, I want to go down to the river." He abruptly grabbed her hand in his silk lavender gloved one, and practically dragged her out the front door.

"But, sir, where are we going in such a rush?" she exclaimed, running quickly behind him. It always ended up this way, she soon learned: he dashing ahead, and she following behind.

"The river, the river, we're going to the river!" he said in a sing-song tone.

"Why, sir?"

"My hands, my dear, my hands," he said. "I must go to the river." And with that, he pulled her faster and faster until they reached the river.

To be continued…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Updates will not be terribly regular; expect an update definitely once a week, sometimes more. There will probably be about five chapters, but I am not sure yet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland, save for my copy sitting on my bookshelf. I am not Lewis Carroll, as I am still living and typing!

"This was a long way to come to a river," the girl in the blue dress remarked, sinking down next to the kneeling man. His hat was off of his head, his bright white hair creating a sort of halo around his pale face. His coat was off of his body as well, and it now lay beside him on the ground. He had removed his beautiful lavender gloves, and these sat upon the coat.

His hands were now revealed to the little girl with blonde hair for the first time. His fingers were long and thin, but she could have guessed that anyway with the gloves on. No, the biggest surprise was yet to lay in store for her.

His hands were pale, well, what little she could see of his actual skin was pale. The rest of his skin was covered in every color of the rainbow, every feature of seeable light, every bit of the spectrum. Blues, reds, purples, yellows, greens, oranges, and more covered his hands.

The colors flashed at the girl as she stared at his hands, their hues glistening in the sunlight. She turned to him to meet his emerald eyes, curiosity written across her features.

"But, sir, what is wrong with your hands?" she asked, still gazing upon her friend's multicolored hands. He instantly swung his head up to stare at her, unabashedly and angry.

"_Wrong_? Dear, but there is absolutely nothing _wrong_ with my hands!" he protested. "I have a left and a _right_, but definitely not a _wrong_ hand, much less two!"

She sighed, brushing her blonde hair back from her shoulder. Of course, he would take it that way! It seemed that to be and survive in Wonderland, one had to be utterly mad. Insane. So what did that make her, she wondered? For sure, she had not been born in Wonderland – she had been born in London, to Henry and Lorina Liddell! She had sisters and brothers of all ages; she was, however, closest to one, as children are wont to do. She was very close to Lorina, and fairly close to Edith as well. And what would they say to this! Their little sister, dress torn and dirty, sitting on a riverbank next to the maddest person she had ever met! A talking cat with horrible manners and a tendency to disappear at inopportune times! A pair of boys, strange little boys that taunted her and completed each others' sentences on the fly!

Very strange indeed.

"I do know that, sir," she said to the un-hatted man. "But, I was just wondering why your hands are…why your hands are…like _that._"

"You are not being very descriptive," he said arrogantly. He knelt further to rub at his hands in the river water. "In fact, I would say you fail to get at the matter that you are trying to ask me, the hatter." He paused, head tilted to the side. "I say, have I made a rhyme?"

"Yes, you have, but that is not the point!" she said, patience already starting to wear thin. Great. She had not even spent an hour today with the man and she was already about ready to walk away and find someone less…annoying to talk to. Well, that would actually be hard; the cat would sneer, the boys would jest. Perhaps at least with the insane milliner, she would have a somewhat decent conversation.

"Then what is the point, my dear?" he asked, jolting her out of her thoughts. She turned to look at him again.

"The point is, sir, that I have a question."

"I daresay you have enough."

"Well, just let me ask it, then!" she nearly shouted. This was definitely not going too well for her.

"Ask away, my dearest girl, ask away."

"Why, sir, why are your hands all of those colors?" she asked, both abandoning manners and deserting Victorian sensibilities in one fell swoop. Good etiquette was worthless when it came to talking with a man such as this one.

"Ah, what a question!" he murmured, kneeling down again to get close to the water. He slowly ran his hands through the water, watching as none of the colors dissolved or removed themselves from his hands.

She stared at him for a moment, studying his calm, serene movements with fierce blue eyes. She waited for his reply to her question, but none seemed to come. "Sir?" she asked, hoping to bring him out of his thoughts and to answering her question.

"Yes, my dearest?" he asked, still composed and peaceful.

"Will you answer my question?"

"Yes."

"Well, then?" she asked. "What is your answer? Why are your hands so many different colors?" Patience wearing thin, she crossed her arms in front of her chest.

"Because they are," he said stubbornly, not sparing her a single glance.

"Well, that is no kind of proper answer, sir," she said, sitting up straight.

His face grew cold and distant, his mannerisms grew jerky. The water swirled in meaningless patterns in front of them. Not picking up his head, he nodded. "Whoever said anything about _proper_?" His voice was chilly, like ice cutting through her very skin.

Some stains can never be removed.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: There will probably be five chapters to this fanfiction. In addition, updates will most likely become further and further apart, due to conflicts in real life. Don't worry; I haven't given up on this or any of my other fanfictions!

Disclaimer: I do not own Alice in Wonderland or any of the characters mentioned in this fanfiction, nor am I a deceased author by the name of Lewis Carroll. All I own are the arrangement of the words upon this page, various different editions of the original novel, and various movie versions of this great tale.

"Well, being proper is very important," the girl protested. What a hypocrite she was! Why, she had just deserted all forms of etiquette a few moments ago, talking to this strange white-haired man with multicolored hands and sparkling green eyes. It was hard to keep ones sanity in such a mad world.

Being proper, she had realized long ago, was really just the act of conforming to a generalized ideal. To be proper, one must become like all of the other so-called "gentlemen" and "gentlewomen" of their status. But she had learned also that such people were not actually as "gentle" as their titles would suggest. If they were so gentle, then what about the beggars on the streets, the children without food, appropriate clothes, or a house to live in? It seemed, far too often, that people of such elevated status were gentle only to those "like" them, those who had been afforded the same opportunities as themselves. And even then, they could scorn and they could tease with as much venom as a poisonous viper.

Many times she had been teased by her peers. They were all young ladies, like her. They had rich parents, fathers that owned valuable businesses, stock, assets, and land, and mothers who had the sole duty of doting on their "perfect" little children, organizing fashionable tea parties, and buying expensive clothes with the money their husbands gave them each month. The same occurred in her own family.

Her father was wealthy and came from a wealthy family. He was a dean and an author, though she had not yet read any of his works. Her mother too came from a fortunate family, with many privileges.

But for whatever reason, all of the children of these lovely families felt the need to tease, to nag one another at every passing moment. She, with her peculiar dreams, was often the victim of these insults. However, she gave them out just as often as she received them. How often could a new dress spark such malice amongst the young girls!

"Being proper is a formality," the man beside her suddenly spoke up, interrupting her rambling thoughts. She gave a start and turned to look at him, at once giving him her full attention. "Have you not noticed, dear one, by now, that formalities have neither place nor purpose here?"

"Well…" she began. "No one is particularly conforming to etiquette and the like here, it seems, sir." She nodded, agreeing with his statement.

"Conforming is a needless act!" he exclaimed. He brought his hands out of the crystalline water to dry them on his pants. "If one conforms to an ideal, then they lose themselves. Dear girl, do you understand? Or has such society brainwashed you?" His voice was fierce, but she could detect a hint of sadness in it.

Was he thinking of something long ago? She could only guess, for she would never be privy to the insane, impossible thoughts of such a mad man.

"Society," he went on, "has ruined many a person. In fact…" he trailed off. His eyes grew almost misty, unable to focus upon a single point in the distance. She looked at him in concern, watching his every movement with careful, caring eyes.

"In fact what, sir?" she inquired after a few moments of silence had passed. "Is everything alright with you?"

"Yes, yes, my dear girl!" he murmured. "Never better in all of my life!" He turned his head away from her, preferring it seemed to look at the dirt along the riverbank instead.

"Is that really true, sir?" she asked.

"True, like proper, is totally worthless. Ever told a lie, dear? Ever told a lie?" he asked, voice rising higher and higher. "Well, get used to it! Everything here is a lie, lie, lie!" He brought his rainbowed hands to his face, a sob breaking through his hastily created barrier. "It is all a lie…"

"A lie?" she questioned. She raised her left hand to his shoulder in concern, remembering how her mother had always comforted her when she was sad. A brush of the hand across her shoulder, such a wonderfully caring gesture, had always chased the horrible nightmares and bad dreams from her mind. She supposed, though, that this was a slightly different matter with the crazed milliner next to her. His nightmares, at least, seemed to take place during the day, during his waking hours. Repressed by his protective instincts.

"A lie, yes," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And you shall never escape it."

"But I will, sir!" she exclaimed. "I shall be back to London, I know it, as soon as I'm done here."

"And when is that, my dearest, when shall that day come?" he asked. He suddenly brought his hands from his pale visage and turned to face her at last. "Will it come when you are dead?"

"I would surely hope not, sir!" she said, horror evident and plain, undisguised in her tone. "I do not intend upon losing my life here?"

"But, you already have," he said, voice still low. "You have come here, and that alone has set these things in motion. A disturbance does not go unnoticed. Your life is now here, my dear. Even if you return, you shall remember."

"I…I am afraid…I do not understand," she said, puzzled.

"That is fine. Often, when we are in the journey, we do not understand the events. It is not until we get to the final destination then we understand our passage," he said.

She got the distinct feeling that that was supposed to have been a sort of elaborate metaphor, meant to grab her attention. But she, who had never been good at such matters, could not understand his carefully organized words.

"Fine, so you cannot understand!" he exclaimed, seeming to read into her mind, to discern her thoughts. "But you will. In time, you will." He nodded, somewhat to himself, somewhat to her. "_Compos mentis_ and _non compos mentis_ are two very different things. Besides the addition of three little letters and a space marker. Three little letters upsetting the balance of the universe."

"But…"

"Do not try to fumble your way through this. Clear your head of previous conceptions. See, that was three little letters, and look what they can do!" He pointed to his head. She supposed that this was the most lucid, slightly ordinary conversation that she had had with him to date, a fact that sort of surprised her.

"My dear girl…" he said. "That was three. Think of your _five_ and what they could do!" He nearly shouted this last line, turning fiercely upon her. "If this is three, then what is five? Disaster, that is what five is! You will never escape it. Tragedy does not erase itself easily from a person's mind."

He paused, taking a deep breath. "I should know, for I have tried."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I re-wrote this chapter due to some rather bad writing on my part. I wouldn't have noticed it if not for Oh-so-wicked 'l.o.v.e.l.y.'. Thank you so much for all the help you have given me!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Alice in Wonderland nor any recognizable characters from that novel.**

"Sir?" the little girl asked. "Is everything alright?"

Everything was not alright. The mad man's emerald eyes could not seem to focus upon a single object, and his hands were a little shaky. He turned to look at her, and then he stood, dusting off the knees of his pants.

"Sure, sure," he muttered. "Everything's just brilliant. Why, 'tis almost brillig!"

"Brillig?" she asked, the unfamiliar word feeling strange upon her tongue.

"Of course," he said. All of a sudden, his tremors stopped and his eyes became clear. She could not place exactly what had happened to him, but at least it seemed to have ended. For now. "We must not wait, nor hesitate! Have I made a rhyme? But of course I have!" he exclaimed. He bent down to pick up his coat, dusting it off lightly before sliding it on. He smiled down at her. "We must be getting back, really, we must!"

"Getting back?" she asked. "But, we've only just arrived?"

"Time's quite temperamental nowadays, you know, my dear," he said, still smiling. "Time just can't make up his mind. He either goes far too slow or far too fast."

She instantly thought of a saying her mother used to tell her whenever she complained about her early bedtime. '_Time goes fast when you're having fun.'_ Perhaps this is what the man meant. But then again, in this sort of mad world, she could never be sure of what anyone meant.

The man pulled out a pocket watch, examining it closely with his green, flashing eyes. "Seems to have stopped," he remarked. "That's strange. I suppose time's just angry with me." He heaved a sigh, turning to look over at her. "_Again._" With that, he placed the watch back inside one of the pockets on his jacket.

"Perhaps you should get that fixed," she said. At least, whenever her father's watch stopped, he would take it to get fixed.

"But time wouldn't appreciate being told what time was, now, would he?" the man asked. "Best let him sort it out for himself, dear. Leave each to his own, and all that."

"Alright, then." It was useless to argue with this man, as she had learned from their interactions so far. He seemed to always think that he was right in every matter, that no one could best him at anything. In this manner, he seemed like a small child. He always wanted to get his way in every matter.

"See," he said, leaning against a nearby tree. "I was young once, like you. But a bit older. And I had dreams and hopes and wishes, as I daresay you do. But one day, those were ripped from me, and thrown away. Into the wind!" He paused, his mouth curving downwards into a frown. "I had wanted to be an explorer."

"An explorer?" she asked curiously. "What kind? Over sea, over land…?"

"Oh, any kind that I could be, I would," he said. "But one day…my father went out to sea, on one of his own explorations…"

She had not considered that he had had a family. He just seemed constant sometimes, as if he had always and permanently been the state he was at the moment. Curious. So he _did_ have a family…

"My father sailed on a huge ship. And one day, he sailed away and never came back." He trailed off, tilting his head down to stare at the ground along the river bank. "I was…frightened, then, dear. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think I do," she murmured. Children, she knew, learned ever so much from their parents. For him to lose his father…to the sea. He would probably never want to see the sea for as long as he lived!

"Good. Well, I didn't want to go exploring anymore after that. There was a job opening for a hatter to the queen. It wasn't the family business or anything, but I figured I could try my hand at it. So I found myself a tutor, and I became an apprentice."

"So, that's when you became a hatter?" she asked.

"Yes. My tutor was really good, one of the finest. He taught me almost everything I know…and then one day, he died."

"Was he…very old?" she asked, itching to learn more.

"Yes, he was very, very old, my dear," he murmured. "Unfortunately…he died." He raised his hands to his face, examining them closely. "He had not taught me one last thing, though. He had not taught me how to use his most precious dyes."

Now, it seemed, he was finally going to tell her the answer to the mystery of his strangely-colored hands.

"I experimented, on the hat I'm wearing now." He tipped it at her with a wry smile. "The dyes, I later learned, can never be washed off. Permanent. Forever. Some things, I suppose, never leave you. My fears, for instance, of the ocean." He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed his gloves, sliding them over his hands to cover up the colors, the stains, the memories. "The tragedy of my father, for instance. Some things, you just cannot escape."

She nodded, finally understanding the mystery of this man before her. They had only met but two or three days previous, and in that short time, he had brought so many questions to her. At least now, a few had finally been answered.

And perhaps she knew a little bit more about metaphors as well. Metaphors. Like his permanent dyes, staining his pale hands. Never to leave. Never to die. Like the memories he now had.

But she supposed that was more of a simile, anyway. But then again, she was never very good at grammar and all of that.

"Come, we must return," he said, breaking the silence. "We may return here soon. I…enjoyed our discussion."

"Me too," she said. For she had.

She supposed he was right about some things. The metaphors, and the ink stains, for instance. But he was wrong about one thing. She was going to return to England, hopefully sooner than later. And when she did, she would never forget.

Like the ink stains upon his hands, these memories would never leave her.


End file.
